


The Good, the Bad, and the Bestial - Caper the Second: The John Sturges Triple Mash-Up

by LooNEY_DAC



Series: LooNEY_DAC's SSSS AUs [2]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:02:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8663122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooNEY_DAC/pseuds/LooNEY_DAC





	1. A Gnu Beginning

“Buffaloed!” Tuuri exclaimed in disgust. The buffalo herd moseying across their path paid her no heed, of course.

“Giant rats,” Reynir grumbled. “Back on the farm, we have to keep the fences up more to keep them out than to keep our sheep in.”

“Well, we can’t plow through ‘em, so we’ll have to wait ‘em out,” Sigrun said philosophically. “Wanna have a rock-throwing contest?”

“Not if you’re going to throw ‘em at the buffalo,” at least three different voices chorused. Sigrun started to frown, but then she caught sight of Emil rubbing his bandage and shrugged instead.

“So how should we kill time then?”

Mikkel pulled out a pack of cards suggestively.

“Oh, no,” Sigrun objected. “One thing my Daddy told me that I’ve held true to was, ‘Honey, never play cards with a man called “Doc”.’”

“Ain’t _that_ the truth,” Emil muttered, remembering the last “friendly game” he and Mikkel had played.

Suddenly, Lalli sat up with a shout. He twisted to face one particular direction, at which Sigrun leapt into the turret and swung the Gatling gun around.

She was just in time. The Arapaho band that had been stalking them for days was finally attacking, trying to make it look like a normal buffalo hunt gone tragically wrong. Instead, a burst or two from the Gatling gun had them breaking away in panic, though Sigrun had been careful to use the “Big Bangin’ Blanks” belt Emil had made for just such occasions.

When they could all hear again, Sigrun observed, “Y’know, it’s a good thing it’s wintertime still, or we’d be roasting in here.”

Tuuri piped up. “I’ve heard rumors that some Germans are developing some kind of way to fix that using ammonia and stuff like that.”

Sigrun snorted again. “I’ll believe it when I feel it.”

*

Sigrun came out from the building at a run, pausing briefly by the horse trough to hurl before throwing herself back into the wagon and slamming the door behind her. This was, perhaps, the only time they had seen Sigrun truly scared, but none of them laughed, made mock, or called her a coward. All she had to say was, “Smallpox,” and every one of them shuddered, clutching instinctively at their own vaccination scars as Sigrun was at hers.

When Sigrun had herself under better control, she remarked, “Well, that was a bust. Uncle Trond won’t be seeing any more out of those poor devils.” She took several deep breaths. “Tuuri, do you think you can stomach seeing if you can use the Telegraph Office to fill ‘em in on this?” When Tuuri nodded, Sigrun smiled.

It was, characteristically, Emil who pointed out their duty to the fallen townspeople, which consumed the rest of the day and most of the next. Not much else happened, though they got their next set of marching orders from Trond _et al._

As they were about to leave, Sigrun remarked, “It has not escaped my notice that those perfidious Arapaho have been conspicuous by their absence this last while. One might get the impression they had a vague notion of what we’d find hereabouts.”

“It has been my experience,” Mikkel confirmed dryly, “that Rumor is wont to fly even faster than Pestilence, and to greater effect.”

*

“So what’s the job Trond’s set us to?” Tuuri asked.

Sigrun frowned. “Shooing some flies away from a small village, though I can’t see why they didn’t go to the Army.”

“More fun for us this way,” Emil said. Sigrun smiled...


	2. Green Grow the Newbies Though

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Lalli said, apropos of nothing.

They were restocking in a small Dakota town on the way to the fly-shooing exercise Taru had garnered them. Lalli, Emil and Tuuri were catching a quick bite before relieving Sigrun and Mikkel from loading duty. Reynir was nearly done seeing to the horses. “So which part is giving you the willies?” Tuuri asked casually.

“The Arapaho.” Emil looked back and forth between the cousins during the exchange, trying to pick up what wasn’t being said, a skill being around Lalli demonstrated the need for.

“Then let’s get the others,” Tuuri declared, “and we’ll see what can be Seen.”

*

Reynir looked up at the others nervously as they gathered around him. “Oh, uh, hi guys.”

Sigrun silently poured a glass of whiskey and put it in front of him. “We need to know about the Arapaho.”

“Do I have to?” Reynir’s voice reflected his extreme discomfort with his new-found “talent”.

“Only if you wanna keep your scalp,” Tuuri pointed out, “never mind the rest of us.”

They’d discovered Reynir’s “talent” quite by accident when they were celebrating their triumph at the mines with what proved a truly epic bout of drinking. Lalli had (mostly) abstained, and his sharp eyes had caught when the first Vision slammed into Reynir like a runaway locomotive.

Reynir slowly drained the glass and waited, staring into empty space. When the Vision hit, he cried out, as always, “AH! NOW I SEE IT!”

“What do you see?” Sigrun asked intently.

“Indians... all the Indians in the world, maybe... they’re riding off towards a wagon train...” Sigrun poured another glass, and he drained it again. “There’s cavalry, too... and a bunch of women, and... and...” Another glass. “Quicksand... the whole wagon train... forty wagons swallowed whole...”

Reynir stood, grabbing the bottle from Sigrun as he stared at the Vision. “There’s a homestead in the quicksand, where the whiskey flows freely, and the Arapaho are coming down on it!” He took a swig straight from the bottle. “I see the men who live there fighting hard to protect their booze, but the redskins are just too much...”

The only sound after that was Reynir chugging down what was left of the bottle as the others pondered his Vision--until a man came up to them and asked for their help fighting off some Indians from his homestead in what he called “Quicksand Bottoms”.

*

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Lalli said, apropos of nothing.

“So which part is giving you the willies this time?” Tuuri asked casually. It had only been a few minutes since the man had gone off with Sigrun to talk turkey.

“The thought that Reynir hasn’t seen all of it yet.”

“We’re out of whiskey for now,” Tuuri pointed out.

Lalli frowned. “I just think we should be careful.”

“So do I,” Reynir agreed in a very slurred voice. He seemed to be fighting to get the words out. “Not sure it isn’t a trap.” His eyes rolled up after these words and he fell over. Mikkel, who had come up behind him, barely had time to catch him.

Tomorrow would be interesting, sure enough...


	3. In Which Our Magnificent Six Finally Become Seven

The homestead was disturbingly empty, so only Sigrun and Emil went in. Lalli manned the turret warily, while Mikkel readied his doctoring kit and Reynir sat wishing he could be of use.

The homestead, though seemingly made of driftwood and whiskey kegs, was actually quite extensive, with a main hallway that wound back and forth until Emil wasn’t sure whether they were coming or going. Just then, they came back to the main room from the other side, having circumnavigated the residence.

“Well,” Sigrun said, “not much here for us. No signs of an attack, and everything seems in its rightful place, but where’s the other guy we’re supposed to meet up with?”

Just then, Emil caught a faint snarl and hiss from parts unknown. As he was dumb enough to mention it, Sigrun sent him off to investigate.

*

“Hey, Doc!” Sigrun called out as she ambled casually to the wagon. When Mikkel opened the door, she handed him a dusty bottle of whiskey. “Give this to Vision Boy and tell him to get Seeing. I’m going back in, but we should be out soon.”

_BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG_

The shots echoed from somewhere near the back of the place. Swearing to herself, Sigrun hurried.

_BANG_

Sigrun paused when the shots ended, unsure which way to go. Indecision was anathema to one like her, though, so she plowed forward.

The first thing she saw was a treed wildcat. The first thing she _didn’t_ see was Emil. The next thing she noticed was how badly the cat was mauled.

Coming to a halt at the base of the tree in which the cat had holed up, Sigrun looked the cat right in the eye and said, “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

*

Outdistancing the rabid, slavering dog had given Emil time to reload, and so he turned to face his pursuer down, but the mad dog was gone. Cautiously, Emil went back the way he’d come.

To Emil’s surprise, the dog was loping away with all the speed it could muster. “Come back!” he cried, hardly knowing what he said, or even why. “Let me make it easy for you! You can’t want to die alone and in pain!”

*

Sigrun was only a few feet from the mangled cat when Emil shouted “Rabies, Sigrun!” at her from below. Bare seconds later, while Sigrun was still working out how to get the cat down without infecting herself, the cat passed out. Well, that solved that.

Again, Emil’s quick ears caught a very faint and weak mewling. Bending down, he found where a few bits of the shabby-looking wall had shifted or been moved to form a kitty-sized hole. Through this hole, he could see several small forms lying in some kind of liquid.

When Emil pulled the first kitten out from the hole, the smell nearly choked him. The kittens were lying in a pool of rat poison. How so much had spilled in just that area, he didn’t know, but that odor was unmistakeable.

The stench of rat poison was strong and bitter, but as Emil pulled body after tiny body from the deceptive “safety” of the hole, Sigrun knew the odor wasn’t why there were tears in his eyes.

_“Meow?”_

The sound had the two of them wrenching at the loose sticks again, until enough had pulled away to reveal the source. A single kitten, far larger than any of the others, had escaped the incident. Or, mostly escaped; while not wet with the poison, it had obviously still inhaled enough of the fumes to be weak and nearly unresponsive to them. But it was alive.

*

“Doc! Help!”

Mikkel came forth, ready for anything... except a sleepy kitten and a gutted, but still barely alive, mother cat.

A single shot from his bag took care of the mother, but the baby would need delicate handling for quite some time. In the meantime, Sigrun, Mikkel, Lalli and Emil went out and buried the others.

Sigrun and Mikkel had gone back in, but Lalli still stood with Emil.

“I don’t suppose you know any kind of sending-off rites for this.” Emil’s tone was melancholy, but Lalli wasn’t listening. A moment later, Emil saw why.

The dog, too exhausted from loss of blood to try to attack now, lay in a pitiful pile some yards distant from where they’d buried the kittens and their mother. Lalli had already drawn his knife and was about to go put it out of its misery when Emil stopped him. Lalli saw that Emil had drawn his own knife and was looking suitably grim. Nodding, Lalli sheathed his blade and stood back.

Emil spoke quiet and soothing words to the poor beast as it lay there, though he was mostly unaware that he did. Even knowing that this was a mercy to the critter, he still had to steel himself in order to finally plunge the blade home, right into its brain.

*

Inside the wagon, the kitten awoke, sniffing at the milk-soaked tuna in front of her. “Yep,” Reynir said, “it’s time to join the living again, sweetie. Uncle Emil just put your mama’s killer down.”

*

As the boys walked back to the wagon, Lalli pointed out, “Looks like every shot hit, just nowhere vital.”

Emil snorted. “Might as well have missed.”

“Nah. No misses is never bad. Brought it down in the end. No danger anymore.” If this epic speech (for Lalli) weren’t enough, Lalli then gave Emil a clap on the shoulder before jumping into the wagon.


	4. Dead Man’s Hand

Of _course_ their captors were Russet’s crooked lawmen. Who else would have kept the Arapaho after them for so long?

The trapdoor far above them clanged shut, sealing them into the Hole. For a few moments, the quiet and the darkness closed in around them. Eventually, though, a scuffling sound began. Their kitten _meow_ ed inquisitively, breaking the sway the complete blackness held over them.

“So,” Tuuri hazarded quietly, “what now, Sigrun?”

“The floor’s just dirt,” Sigrun mused. “If we know the right way to go, digging our way out should be easy. How’s Reynir?” This last was asked in an almost subdued voice.

“They bashed his eyes up pretty good,” Mikkel said. “While it _will_ heal up, he’ll still need to wear the blindfold for some time to come. Don’t worry; I’ll look after him.”

“OK.” Then, with her wonted verve, “Emil and Lalli, you need to get out of here, snoop around, and get back so we know which way to go.”

“Not that I’m against getting out of here,” Emil said, “but how were you thinking we’d do it?”

“A human ladder,” she replied blithely. “Lalli on you on Reynir on me on Mikkel ought to be high enough to get the door open. Then he pulls you up and the two of you get to work.”

Against all odds, it worked.

*

Getting caught on the first run was sort of part of the plan, but neither Emil nor Lalli enjoyed it.

They threw Emil and Lalli into what they sarcastically called “the Cooler”: a hotbox so small, there was barely room enough for the two of them.

The first few eons were all right, as such, but Emil could tell something was amiss with his taciturn friend. It wasn’t the heat, though they were both sweating buckets; nor was it the tight quarters, as Emil had seen Lalli pretzel himself through tighter spaces.

Eventually, Emil realized what it was: Lalli just couldn’t stand being boxed in, unable to move; like a cat, he needed to come and go as he pleased, uncaged.

About their third millennium in the Cooler was when Lalli started beating his head against the wall, softly at first, but soon so hard Emil was worried he’d do himself harm. Emil did the only thing he could think to do: he sat Lalli in his lap, wrapping him in a bear hug and murmuring soft nonsense to him like one of his little cousins. This was when he realized Lalli was sobbing silently.

Eventually, the guards came. The boys were so weak that they had to be lifted bodily from the hotbox and carried back to the welcome cool darkness of the pit.

*

“Mikkel?” Reynir asked quietly.

“Yes, Reynir?” The response was gentle and quiet as ever.

Reynir felt his throat close up with fear.

“Reynir? Did you want something?” Mikkel paused. “I’m here, if you need me.”

Finally, Reynir managed to speak--to ask the question that had been haunting him all this time. “Mikkel--will I see again?”

There was another pause before Mikkel replied, “Of course you will. Don’t you remember me telling Sigrun that?”

“I heard what you told Sigrun,” Reynir said. “I want to know the truth: are you _sure_ I’ll see again?”

“Am I _sure?”_ Mikkel mused. There was no hint of playfulness or deception or anything other than stark frankness when he continued, “No. I can no more be _sure_ that you’ll see again than I can be _sure_ you’ll live through the night. You’re the Seer amongst us, not me. I can only tell you that, if things follow their wonted course, you should be able to see again within a week, maybe two.”

“Thank you, Mikkel.” Reynir’s voice trembled.

“I was blinded once, by a mule’s kick,” Mikkel continued. “It scared me every which way you can imagine. I don’t think I ever saw anything more beautiful than that ugly old medicine man who took my bandages off when it was time. No, Reynir, I really don’t think I ever did.”

*

The two girls were taking their turn digging again. Less than ten feet were needed to get them clear now.

The sound they’d all learned to dread came a split second before the cave-in. Tuuri flew to the rope, pulling with all her might, and, after an eternal instant, Sigrun slid back out from the loose earth that had swallowed her.

It was a long while before Sigrun could bring herself to answer Tuuri’s worried questions. Finally, she steeled herself to reveal her greatest secret. “This goes no further.”

“Ya _think?”_ Tuuri asked scornfully. “I’m no tattletale; you know better than that.”

“I _hate_ small places; I _hate_ tunnels. I can’t imagine a worse fate than being _buried alive.”_ Sigrun bit her lip until she tasted blood.

“But the tunnel was your idea,” Tuuri stammered in shock.

“I _hate_ the gang being imprisoned more,” Sigrun stated simply. “So we will _dig.”_ She took a few deep breaths. “I’ll be all right soon. We need to get more shoring, or that’ll happen again.”

Tuuri followed Sigrun’s ‘back-to-business’ lead. “That cave-in cost us almost twenty feet, and we’ll need double what we thought for the rest.”

“Leave that to Mikkel,” Sigrun said.


	5. In Which the Magnificent Seven Make Their Great Escape Down the Hallelujah Trail

The break-out didn’t _quite_ go according to plan. But, then, things never went entirely to plan, so Sigrun wasn’t so displeased, even though Emil’s insistence on taking every last bit of the prison down nearly got them caught. The other fugitives would keep any of their surviving jailers busy for some time to come.

Usually, demolitions were a matter of professional pride for Emil. This instance was decidedly different. While the explosive razing of their prison had indeed afforded Emil great satisfaction, nothing had quite topped the moment he’d handed Lalli the leads to blow the Hotbox to Kingdom Come. Lalli had smiled as he brought the wires together.

Their jailers hadn’t disposed of either the wagon or the possessions they’d left in it, perhaps because it had once been part of the jailers’ own wagon fleet. Whatever the cause, Tuuri found their wagon for them, very nearly as they’d left it, though most of their cash was gone. Still, the stables and hostelry disclosed sufficient stores that they were satisfied.

Blind as he was, Reynir was still the best at calming the horses so they could be harnessed. The other horses were turned loose and the stables torched, making a nice light show as they vamoosed.

*

Their job was still awaiting them, though they were a week or two late getting to it. A gang of bushwhackers had gathered around a small farming village and were in the process of stripping everything they could from the hapless citizenry, who had put out a call for help.

Sigrun knew that their best chance would be to train the townsfolk to guard their village themselves, letting the bushwhackers know they weren’t pushovers anymore.

Mikkel was deeply unhappy at having to bounce from one fight straight to another, and only the irrefutable point that more lives would be lost if they waited resigned him to the situation.

Emil was quite pleased to be the voice of authority for once, though he tried not to be too bombastic.

Lalli was less pleased at having to deal with strangers at all, let alone a bunch of rube farmers who were better at using rifles as clubs rather than guns.

Tuuri went to work designing mobile barriers and such to fortify the village with a will, and proved surprisingly good at it.

Reynir was still blind, and it gnawed at him. Mikkel pulled off his bandages every so often to examine his eyes, but all Reynir could see was a too-bright vague blur. Did that mean his eyes were getting better, or would that blur be all he’d ever see anymore?

*

After six days of quiet, Lalli was sent to scout the bushwhackers’ camp out. He came back with news that the bushwhackers were both restless and worried, and so a quick strike on the camp might stir them up enough to strike back, or get them to flee outright.

Sigrun was not of the opinion that the bushwhackers would flee, but if they could be made to attack, that was to be desired. All the defenses were in place; the villagers were as ready as they’d ever be; and more time would just wear on them all. She, Lalli and Emil would go out and raid the camp, while Mikkel, Tuuri and Reynir got the village ready.

*

Sigrun swore again. Both her horse and Emil’s were close to dropping beneath them. They had found the camp deserted. Lalli looked at the recently quenched fires, the half-finished food, and the other signs of a quick departure and growled, “Humbugged!” Then he told the others, “I’ve got an idea. You go back!” and galloped away.

The village was ahead of them, its defenses still down. The hair rose on the back of Sigrun’s neck.

Sigrun and Emil walked up to the house the villagers had assigned their company. Sigrun pushed the door open, revealing the head bushwhacker, his guns covering them. “Evening, friends,” he said mockingly. “Come on in.”

Gesturing Emil to follow, Sigrun entered. The others were in the front room, bound hand and foot.

“They came right after you left,” Tuuri said. “Some of the villagers helped them.”

“And now we’ll help ourselves,” the head bushwhacker grinned. “We can do this easy, or we can do this hard. The easy way’s where you just all ride away and let us be. The hard way--well, that’s where I’ll have to shoot you all come morning, in front of the whole village.”

“Shoot us.” All six said it simultaneously, even blind Reynir.

*

“Behold, the consequences of defying me!”

The bandit leader slowly and deliberately brought his pistol to full-cock, aiming at the proud redhead who stood defiantly erect, a disdainful sneer curling her lip. After a few tense seconds, he shrugged and pulled the trigger, only to have the shot go wild when he heard the Arapaho war cries.

Lalli galloped past the little knot of people in the village square, half a breath ahead of the Arapaho that had been stalking them for so long. In another minute, the bushwhackers and the Indians were duking it out while the townsfolk kept their heads down.

Sigrun smiled. This was shaping into just the kind of brawl she liked best...


	6. Escaped Escapades

Wow, what a _mess_ this was.

As Lalli had planned, the attacking Arapaho had created (more than) enough of a diversion for Sigrun and the others to escape, but boy, howdy, did it seem more like blowing the dam to stop the town below burning up: technically it worked, but it left you with even more problems than before.

Tuuri, Reynir and Sigrun had managed to get to their wagon at last, and when Sigrun opened up with the Gatling (no blanks this time; just live rounds, thank you), the Arapaho finally decided enough was enough. About half their number were left dead or dying in the village, but they’d accounted for most of the bushwhackers in the process, and the balance decided to follow the Arapaho’s example once the wagon came into play.

All that remained was dealing with the villagers, which Sigrun intended to do in no uncertain terms and in very short order.

*

“Do we really have so few enemies left that you needed to make more?” Mikkel asked Sigrun as the wagon bore them off towards their next adventure.

“You’d rather I’d ended ‘em, rather than leaving ‘em to the mercy of the other folk they betrayed?” Sigrun looked at Mikkel knowingly. “I thought not. ‘Sides, it seems to me they made us their enemies, rather than t’other way ‘round.” Her drawl always deepened when she got angry, and this was no exception. She deliberately tried to calm herself down as Mikkel mulled her speechifying over, but it was hard: of all offenses, she counted treachery as about the worst.

“I doubt they’ll see it that way, but you’re still right.” Mikkel still looked unhappy.

“Well, the way I see it, we drove off the bushwhackers once and for all, ditto the [EXPLETIVE DELETED] Arapaho, and we got our fee, so I don’t see what’s not to like about it.”

“It doesn’t set well with me, that’s all.”

“Then go try to pry something out of Lalli; or better yet, get Reynir a-Seeing.”

“We shouldn’t use those two like a crutch,” Mikkel objected.

“Then you’ll have to do like I do: live with it. There’s a whole world of things that don’t sit right with me, but I can’t change ‘em, so I have to live with ‘em.”

*

“Is everything ready, boy?” The hard voice hinted it had better.

The hired gun had seen the worst of the War’s fighting, from the Wilderness through the Crater and even Cold Harbor, before he’d decided there was no point to it any more. He hadn’t met his employer until after being hired on; if he had, nothing would have prevailed upon him to work for someone who, just by his presence, brought back all those memories. But he had hired on, and no one left his employer’s pay while still living.

Some days, even that terrible option seemed preferable to staying on.

The man’s lips had just parted to repeat his question when the hired gun finally answered. “As far as I have been able to arrange it, yes, sir.” At the man’s look, the hired gun protested, “I can’t make weather to order, y’know? We need a few more days of good weather to get it done for certain sure.”

“Oh, very well. It will wait until then.” A curt gesture dismissed the hired gun. _“She_ will certainly wait until then.” The single most frightening smile the hired gun had ever had the mischance to witness split his employer’s face.

*

Reynir could see again, so he wasn’t wasting any more time with his eyes closed than he had to. He was busily devouring one of Emil’s fancy picture books (“Modern Breech-loaders: Sporting and Military”) when the others came in. They were bearing whiskey.

Part of Reynir didn’t want the visions; part of him embraced them; and yet another part _really_ wanted the whiskey. That last was the most frightening aspect of it, and why he resisted doing this too often. He’d had a dipsomaniac uncle, and wanted no part of it.

When he related all this to his comrades, not without some trepidation, they were all surprised when Lalli spoke in his favor. “Future’s hard to See, and scary besides. Not surprised he needs a binge to See it. Not surprised he doesn’t wanna get to be a sot. Sots are worthless ‘less you can dry ‘em out. Shouldn’t press him to be a sot from Seeing, so no Seeing ‘less it’s really needed.” Lalli then turned to Reynir. “Gotta _really_ bad feeling about tomorrow. Like before we got caught. Need you to See tonight. Won’t ask again for a good long while.”

Well, then. Reynir took the bottle...


End file.
